Snow Blindness
by KorosuKa
Summary: One day, Russia decides to try some magic out. Ignoring the risks, he eventually ends up in a rather difficult situation. He has lost his eyesight. Now that he has to depend on others, he will have to learn to trust them. Who can he rely on? Many other countries included!
1. Chapter 1: House of Memories

Hello dear readers! This is chapter one of Snow Blindness, rewritten by me, the original author of the story.  
This chapter has not been beta'd!

Enjoy~

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Chapter I  
_House of Memories_

Russia closed the front door behind him. It wasn't much warmer inside his house than it had been outside. His nose and cheeks were red. He took off his big jacket and put his boots away. No sunflowers yet. He wished for General Winter to go away soon, maybe then his daily walks would finally be fruitful.

He entered his living room, and shivered at how cold it was. He kneeled down before the fire, and lit a single match. He carefully laid it between the blocks of wood, and watched the little flame grow bigger. Soon, he could feel the warmth of the fire. Its heat was unpleasantly strong against Russia's cold cheeks.

Slowly he got up, and sat down on the couch. He sunk away in the old cushions, which used to be bright red, but the colour had faded over the years. He stared at the fire. Somehow, the heat didn't feel warm. Why was it always so _cold_?

He used to make walks together with his sisters. Ukraine would walk near him, and yet her thoughts would be to far for him to get. Sometimes she would force a smile over her lips, just like he would do. Belarus would be holding tightly onto his arm. She would be more focussed on what Russia did than the nature that surrounded them.

The fire used to make everything warmer when it was freezing outside. It used to burn during the winter, whenever he came home and whenever he left it. Estonia would make the fire early in the morning, while Lithuania prepared breakfast. Sometimes they would go into the forest for wood together; sometimes Prussia or another nation would go. Latvia would warm his frozen hands there between his chores.

The couches used to be filled with nations. Some grumpy, some relieved, and some just tired. Sometimes they would drink or tell each other jokes and stories. Sometimes no one sat in the couch.

Sometimes were over. He sat in the couch alone now. The fire was cold. The walks were lonely.

He blinked, slightly surprised, when he heard his stomach growl loudly. He laid his hand upon his belly. He had known how it felt like to be really hungry. He remembered going to bed without dinner, then waking up and beginning to work with an empty stomach. There had been times where hunger had almost been a normal part of the day.

When he looked out of the window, he noticed that it was already getting late. The sky was clouded, and it looked like it could start to snow any moment. He hadn't even realised he had wasted so much time, again. He stared at the window for just a little longer. He didn't like the colour white. He didn't like snow, nor ice. This colour had nothing to do with pureness, with chastity or anything. To him, white was just empty. It was a cruel colour.

He sighed and got up from the couch. It wasn't good to waste his hours there. Thinking about the past or about anything alike wouldn't change the present. He went to the kitchen, and took a slice of bread. It was a little old, but he didn't mind. He took some borscht out of the fridge and heated it up. While the soup was warming up, he returned to the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of vodka. He briefly wondered whether he should take a glass, but just put the bottle to his lips and threw his head back. The alcohol burned in his mouth and throat. He put the bottle aside, and returned to his soup.

After finishing the late meal, he cleaned up and left the living room. He shortly wondered what he should do, and then decided to go to his study.

A little dust whirled up as he opened the big wooden door. Ivan stepped forward, and let the door close behind him again. His eyes shortly wandered over the fairly big room. There were several rows of tall bookshelves. A variety of thick, thin, big and small books, in all kinds of colours and languages, filled the shelves. There were a couple of globes, some maps and also a computer, a laptop and an empty desk. There was a sofa and an old lamp that was broke but hadn't been replaced yet.

There was one book that drew his attention. It lay opened on the small table next to the sofa. Raising an eyebrow, he went to pick the book up. The cover was green; the dark fabric felt rough underneath his fingertips. What had once been a mysterious colour was now worn-out and forgotten. There was no title. He opened it. The first page was written in a language he could place at first. It took him several moments to figure out it was the English caster's language. Books about magic occasionally didn't have anything on their cover, because they didn't need to stand out. The owner had to know his books.

Russia flipped a few pages. Likes most books of this kind, it was handwritten. A little over halfway, the pages became blank. He wondered why the author had stopped writing, and returned to the last page where something had been written. He could read what there stood, but was slightly annoyed when trying to find and understand the purpose and effects of the spell. On the previous pages, he had often recognized some kind of a goal of the spell or curse, sometimes a warning or additional notes, or an experience. This one was apparently left unfinished. He wondered whether the writer had died, forgotten about the book, or willingly discontinued writing it.

Russia's eyebrows knit together in a frown. There was no result or information, just the mere spell. Had something gone wrong with the spell? Was it dangerous? He knew that there could be great risks bound to spells. He went back a few pages again, and concluded that most spells didn't look too threatening. He was curious, and wanted to know what this unknown, English spell would be capable off.

It was late though. His eyelids were starting to become heavy, and his thoughts weren't as sharp as they should be. He put the book back. Tomorrow, he promised himself, then he would consider giving it a try. Honestly, he didn't think the spell would be as interesting as he was expecting it to be. He was strong enough to deal with a lot of spells, so nothing could really go wrong. Maybe it was a lame spell. Maybe nothing would happen or the spell turned out to be incorrect. At least he would know.

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When he woke up the next morning, he forced himself to get out of bed. He took a quick shower and got dressed. He ate bread and some leftovers from another meal for breakfast. A little headache started to bother him, but he tried to ignore it. He went to his study and started working. He had gotten some mails from his boss. After about two hours he shut his computer down and ran his fingers through his short hair. He glanced aside, and his eyes found the green book. He remembered immediately what he had wanted to do. Now was a good moment to see what exactly that spell was all about.

When reading the page, he saw that there was no use of any potion or drawings in chalk. Something that didn't ask for anything outside the caster couldn't be that interesting. The only bad side was that those spells usually couldn't get their energy from potions or any other extern magic sources. They would suck the energy out of the caster. He read the spell a few times, to make sure he would be saying the correct words. It was a long spell. Since it wasn't his original caster language, he figured it would feel forced and unnatural anyway. He had no bond with the spells or summons he did in foreign languages.

He licked his lips, and loudly began to speak. It felt strange to do it again. It had been quite a while ago since he had done anything like this. He spoke the words. Compared to the strong and intense voice he had used years ago, it now sounded like a mere demand.

The end of the spell was nearing. He began to speak louder, feeling a certain tingling feeling in his body. He didn't have to look at the book anymore. Effortlessly, the words fell over his lips. The spell ended, but he continued. It was the first time he had felt a foreign spell actually move within him. The words were strange but yet they were his, the source of them was behind his lips, it was inside of him. The tingling started to become stronger, until it seemed to start piercing through his skin, burning. He spat the last words, finally feeling the real end of the spell.

He inhaled deeply, grasping for air. It was still inside him. He put his hands on his chest, as if he were grabbing for his heart. It was there, like needles in his skin, like poison in his blood, but mostly like burning acid in his heart. It had felt nice at first, why did it feel so painful and odd now? He had stopped speaking, but the hurt only became worse.

A sharp pain shot through his body, and suddenly it was gone. As if it had been ripped out of his body and had left an empty shell. Russia blinked. In front of him was a skeleton. Everything else around him started to fade away and became darker. The skeleton laughed, its laughter was loud and echoed endlessly. Or was it crying? Screaming? The loud sound was agonizing. He tried to cover his ears but his arms wouldn't move. Where were his arms?

Cold, a thousand needles pierced his skin. His muscles became stiff and wouldn't listen. He was in the water. Giant waves pulled and pushed him along as if he was a mere rag doll. He couldn't move, couldn't swim. His breath was lost. The water filled his lungs. He was drowing in the black waves.

Ice. The water turned harder. The darkness turned white. It felt like the ice was trying to crush him. Invisible nails scraped through his skin. He screamed. There was sound. He screamed and yelled and cried. He rolled himself up into a little ball, trying to disappear. He became so little and cold and covered in white, like a snowball. And suddenly he was in the air, tumbling and falling, and not able to see where he was going. He hit something. Something big. He fell apart, literally. Little pieces of him everywhere, like a snowball that had been thrown.

He heard laughter. Girls, boys, men, women. He heard crackling fire and suddenly everything was hot. Burning. He felt his skin blackening and being devoured by the bright red colours of the flames he suddenly found himself in. It smelled terrible, like burn and decay.

The pain disappeared. He didn't feel a burn in his chest, neither did he feel his torn skin. He didn't feel anything, physically. No pain and no tingling, no hurt and no tickling. He didn't hear any loud noise that violated his ears. Just distant whispers he could not understand. He saw people. People he knew. Some of them he could recognize immediately, and of some he knew he had seen them one. Some looked like total strangers. He saw more and more people, and he was somehow slowly being sucked away from them. All those people, and their constant distant tumult, it was like a soft rustle. He was away from them. They were all together. He stared at them, from far away. That's all he could do. That's all he did. He looked at them. Being merry, being sad, being joyful and being mad. But they were being together. Was that all he could do? Watch them live. His body was limp. He couldn't even look away. Ache. No fire or ice or needles or screams. Just a hollow ache, that felt like a soar gap in his chest. He stared at their lively world, from his own big, empty one.

Everything didn't become black. It didn't become white either. There was no warm or cold. No sound and no silence. _Nothing_.

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So, what do you think? Do you like it? If you have read the old Snow Blindness, is this better in your opinion?

**Review~**


	2. Chapter 2: Colourless

Hi there, here's the second chapter. I took me longer than I expected, but I hope you guys will enjoy it! If there are any errors or typos, I'm very sorry for that. This story is not being betareaded.  
Enjoy~

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Chapter II  
_Colourless_

Russia's finger twitched. He parted his lips and inhaled deeply. He became aware of his body, of himself. There was a nasty feeling in his stomach, an ache in his bones and his skin felt as if had shrunk and was wrapped around him too tightly. To make it worse, he experienced both pain and numbness at the same time. He was also tired. His body was stiff, as if he was made of stone. Slowly, he clenched his fist. He was glad that his muscles seemed to respond. He blinked. It was completely dark around him. He wondered whether he had woken up in the middle of the night. Had he woken from another nightmare? Then why wasn't he sweating and shivering? It must have been late night to be that dark. He moaned slightly when he pushed himself of the ground. Why was he lying on the ground? Wasn't he in his bed? He tried to figure out where he was. The carpet underneath his hands was short and rough. The room smelled like dusty books. What was he doing in the middle of the night in his study room? He got to his knees, and wondered why his eyes didn't adapt to the darkness at all. He could see no outlines of furniture or anything. He tried to orient himself. He held his hands in front of him and made a few steps forwards. A vertical, cold surface stopped him from continuing. He tapped it with his nails. It was a window.

He could hear a few birds outside. Their happy songs were always nice to wake up to. He stiffened_. Birds sang when the sun rose_. He blinked a few times. Why was it pitch black when the birds were announcing the arrival of a new day already? He brought his hands to his eyes and rubbed them. It didn't change anything. He turned away from the window. Using his hands to guide him safely, he made his way to the door. The light button was at his left. He switched on the light. Again. And again. He could even hear the light bulb flickering on. He blinked frantically, and carefully touched his eyelids with his fingers, as if that would help. Did anything happen to his country? Did he meet up with someone yesterday? Then it struck him. His fingertips rested against his cheeks as the events of the past day or night, or how long ago it might have been, sunk through his skull. His fingers dug into his skin, making half-moon shaped lines in his cheeks. What had really happened that night? What had gone wrong?

It was terrible. He decided it was one of the worst things that could happen to him. He was trying to make his way to the living room. The same sentences were constantly repeated in his head_. This is horrible. What happened? What now? This is so horrible_.

Luckily, he had lived in this house for a long time already, and could get to the living room without too much trouble. He found his phone, which laid untouched on the coffee table. He had to think a moment before he remembered what buttons were where. At moments like this, he was glad he didn't have one of the newest phones with a touch screen. His fingers hesitantly pressed the buttons, as he imagined where they were going. It shouldn't be too hard, even though he didn't call this number often. He pressed what he hoped was the green button, and held the device to his ear. He could hear the beep, and counted them too figure how long it woud take for the other nation to answer.

"Hello, England speaking."

"Yes, hello," he said.

He realised he had no idea what he was going to say. The only things that went through his mind were still the same as the ones before. Telling England that it frustrated him and that he didn't really know what had happened wasn't a good idea though.

"Russia? That you?"

He licked his lips, trying to quickly find a way to formulate his situation, "Da."

Silence. The thought of telling this to England made him grow uncomfortable.

"Why are you calling?"

His voice sounded impatient. It made Russia nervous, and he wanted to end the conversation. He would have to find the right button first though. Russia clenched his jaw. The silence was taking too long, and with every second it made him grow more reluctant.

"Nevermind," He growled, and hung up.

He had to hold himself from smashing the phone to pieces against a wall. That wouldn't get him anywhere. It would only make things worse. Besides, it was a Nokia, so his wall would be damaged, not his phone. He put the phone down on his coffee table.

He had to get things straight. Firstly, he had to calm down. He realised his hands were clenched in fists. He tried to relax a little. The sudden frustrations made everything difficult. The idea of telling someone what had happened was not appealing in any way. England was not his friend, neither his enemy, but he had to tell him. It was England's magic anyway. It was England's fault. Now he was getting angrier again.

What was he going to say? "I messed up an English spell, come help me out." Never. He didn't want to. Not at all. He would sound like a complete idiot. Something had happened though, and it hadn't ended very well. And he needed help. He hated this situation. Last time he asked for help was during communism, and he had gotten it from America. Guess what happened afterwards? A Cold War. Asking for help was a sign of weakness, and certainly when it came with saying that it had been a mistake he had caused himself.

He had to. Some way, he would have to inform England about this. Maybe he didn't. Maybe this was only short and temporary. He was patient. It wasn't like anyone would notice anyway. It wasn't like there were people around him who cared anyway.

That's how time passed. He wandered through his house. He tried to eat and drink something. He had to feel himself up in case there was something else that was going on with him that he couldn't see.

He had no idea what time it was. A lot of time had passed. It seemed like ages had past. He decided to sleep. He didn't trust his body to be tired at night and awake a day though. He often slept irregularly, staying up all night working, or taking naps in the afternoon. He lied down on his couch. It didn't take long before he lost consciousness.

When he woke up, he couldn't tell whether he had slept for long. He just knew he was in his couch. He also knew that he was being stubborn and somewhat naïve. He sighed, and stretched. He was still wearing the same clothes he had worn the day he had screwed up the spell. Slowly, he reached for his phone. Once again, he dialled England's number.

"Yes, Russia?" England answered, clearly not happy to get another call.

He tried to stay calm, "I have a question."

There was a little silence, until England spoke again, "You know, it's almost 2am here. I'd love to answer your question but maybe in the afternoon, or if it's really urgent, in the morning, and that's not earlier than 9am."

His voice was tired and unpleased. Russia frowned, "I wasn't aware of that."

There was another short silence, "Wait, the time difference is merely 3 hours. Isn't it around 5am at your place?"

"Possibly."

A sigh. "What the bloody hell is wrong with people, seriously. Why would you decide to make a call at 5am to someone that's most likely sleeping?"

"That's the problem."

"You've lost a sense of time? Or your sanity? Maybe your empathy for people that are trying to enjoy their few hours of rest?"

Russia wasn't bothered by England's comments or questions. "I think I lost my eyesight."

Suddenly there was a silence. A serious one. No sighing or shifting. It took England a few seconds before he responded again.

"What?"

Russia was mildly annoyed with that response, "I'm not going to repeat it."

"You're… blind?"

"Yes."

It took England a moment to say something again. "I have a few questions now. Firstly, why are you calling _me_ out of all people to tell this to?"

Russia had difficulties with phrasing his thoughts. "Because it involves you."

"It does?" England sounded slightly surprised, "I don't understand. How am I involved?"

"Long story."

England sighed again, "Russia, either you call back within, I don't know, twelve hours, or you explain to me now what is going on."

This made him shift uncomfortable. "Basically, I was practicing magic with an English spell, and then I woke up and wasn't able to see anything."

The both of them didn't say anything for a few seconds.

England spoke again, "It's not just because it's night at your place, is it?"

Russia was irritated, "In that case, it's been 'night' from before I called you the first time. Of course it's not just darkness. I can't see. My eyes don't work the way they should. It's because of that spell."

"That's bad."

"It is. I don't think I can do much about it. That's why I am calling you."

He wanted to say he _needed_ the Brit to come over, but that was too much. He didn't need him. He was sure that if he really wanted, he could handle it without Britain's help. It was just easier if he could use someone to look for him. That's what he needed England for, to use him as a pair of eyes. To make the work easier.

"Is it okay if I call you back? I need to think about this. And I won't be able to do a lot this very moment."

"Okay," He said, and his tone darkened, "Don't talk about this with others."

"I won't," The nation responded matter-of-factly, "Goodnight."

It was, probably, the next day when Russia opened the front door.

"It's me," he recognized his voice, "England."

Carefully, he stepped back and allowed the Brit to enter his house. He listened carefully, to make sure no one had accompanied him without his knowing.

He smiled politely, "I didn't expect you to come over that quickly."

He could hear a short movement of clothes that he defined as a shrug.

"I have a few days off and I want to get over with this as quickly as possible. I told you that I would take a direct flight to Moscow, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes."

There was a little silence as they stood in the hallway. He could hear England taking off his jacket.

"How long ago did it happen?"

"I woke up shortly before calling you the first time."

"Do you have any idea how long you have been unconscious?"

Russia shook his head, "No."

England sighed, "Did anyone notice? Does anyone else know?"

Again, Russia shook his head, "Nope."

"Let's maybe go to the living room, hm?"

"Go ahead," He said, and followed the Brit to the living room. It wasn't too difficult to get there, because he could hear and follow England's footsteps.

"Can I," England started hesitantly, "Take a closer look?"

Russia raised an eyebrow, "At what?"

"Your eyes."

He nodded. Though, when a hand touched his cheek, he pulled his head back in surprise, and stepped back. He didn't like the sudden closeness, certainly because he couldn't see what was going on.

"There, there, don't move, I'm only going to look."

He inwardly groaned at his discomfort. On his cheek, he could feel England's fingertips carefully touching his skin. He could hear England breathing. Also, he had no idea where to look.

"Ehm," The Brit sounded uncomfortable as well.

"Da?" It sounded bolder than he had intended.

"Can you bend down a little?"

He frowned, a little confused. He raised his hand, and when he found England's arm, he went up until he could lie his hand down on the nation's head.

"Oh," He muttered, "You're small…"

England was obviously irritated, "Yeah, great, it doesn't matter. Bend down."

Russia slightly bent through his knees. It didn't take long before he realised how much worse this made everything. Now he could _feel_ England's breath in his neck.

"Can you actually see anything?" He mumbled, wanting to push the Englishman away.

He was relieved when England actually took a step back again.

"You're eyes are empty," He stated.

Russia cocked his head slightly to the left, "Empty?"

"Yes, I mean, I can distinguish vaguely where you irises have been. There's some kind of a darker shade, but it's not really a colour."

He nodded slowly, "Strange."

This promised to be interesting. Russia wondered how long it would last, and hoped it would go over soon. He had his doubts on whether he could trust England with this, but since they had a rather professional and distanced relation, he figured it was still a better option than many other nations. If he were lucky, no one else would have to find out. This mishap was something he would rather keep to himself.

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That's it for chapter 2! I hope you all liked it~ Give me your opinion!  
Does anyone feel the RusUK? I had a great time writing them (kind of my favourite pairing, even though it is actually with fem!England) I was really temped to ignore the "no pairings" thing. But hints, hints! Lots of hints! *ramble ramble*  
**Review~**


	3. Chapter 3: How do you do?

**SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING FOR LIKE, AGES. I'm having exams. Lots of exams. Please forgive me. I'm almost halfway though, and I hope I'll be able to write a lot more afterwards!**

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Chapter III  
_How do you do?_

Russia didn't feel well. He felt nauseous and, even though he wouldn't admit it, he was grumpy. He was feeling rather pessimistic about the whole thing, and it didn't seem like that was going to change anywhere soon.

It had been a bad idea. He should have never considered it, never invited England in the first place. Now England was leading him away from his car. Not Russia's car, but England's car. It was too late to regret things now. Instead of being annoyed, he should concentrate on other things, but somehow his mood had been off. He wondered whether England had also realised how inconvenient and plainly irritating it would be. On the other hand, he admitted he was probably exaggerating in his mind.

England unlocked the front door, and guided Russia in. They took of their jackets. England took Russia's jacket and put it away, he mumbled something about tea and fled. Russia figured he should follow him, but didn't move.

England's house. What did it look like? It was bothering him that he couldn't see anything around him. This had been the main cause of his frustration. Moving out of his house had been a wrong decision. Now he was in a strange place where he couldn't find his way. Being blind felt like being ripped off the world, you had no idea what was happening around you.

In his stubbornness, he stood their, not really waiting for England to come back. Like a child that thought it was treated unfairly, he wanted to turn around and go home. He was an adult though, and blind. He could behave decently and stay in a place even if he wished not to do so. And even if he wanted to go home, it would take him ages. He crossed his arms, and knew he was only making things more difficult for himself.

He inhaled deeply, and sighed. Then, he inhaled again. The place smelled dusty. The air filled his lungs. He noticed that it wasn't just dusty, and he could distinguish more scents. It smelled like old books, like tea and a faint hint of roses. England's house didn't smell bad.

It was raining. Raindrops hit the windows. It sounded like the gentle rhythm of a drizzle, but he could hear the splattering of the drops become louder, and the drizzle starting to turn into a shower. The wind howled, but not like it howled in Russia. It was a subtler whoosh, but one that always seemed to be there, always tickling the long branches of the trees he could hear outside, and occasionally it became brusquer. It reminded him of autumn, even though it was early spring. There was still snow at his place, and the lack of it here was probably one of the few things that made his stay in England a little better.

He unfolded his arms, and made a step forward. His hand searched for a wall, and he carefully touched the one at his left. The wallpaper's texture felt old and worn-out, but not cold like his. He wondered whether it would be frilly and damaged in the corners. Just when he thought he was entering the living room, there was a flash of white. It had been sharp and painful to his eyes; he blinked a few times and stepped back, raising one hand in a reflex to protect his face.

He saw light. Light, coming from little flames on the candles of big chandeliers. They brightened up a wonderful room, filled with humans. The walls had a beige colour, edging a light yellow, with a curly pattern that didn't really resemble anything. There were big windows, with even bigger curtains to hide the world behind them. Some wonderful paintings made the walls look livelier.

He could hear the noise of high heels bumping into wood with every step the humans made on the floor. They were dressed in fancy clothing, the men wearing neat suits and the women wearing dresses that were richly decorated with frilly ribbons, lace, jewellery and more.

Someone played a trumpet, and its noise seemed to alert the people. They gathered in pairs, and as the music of the orchestra started to fill the room, they started dancing. The warm sound of their chattering became louder. Uncomfortably loud. It suddenly reminded him of the painful experience he had after using the spell. Their posh conversations and laughter became stifling. He felt pushed aside, both ignored and threatened.

He looked away from them, and his eyes glanced at the flames of a fireplace. Its heat was comforting. It almost caressed his skin, but soon it became too hot. He needed to snap out of this. He squeezed his eyes shut. He held his arms up, wanting to make sure everything and everyone stayed away. A wave of what felt like repulsion struck him, and he shivered.

He grasped air and opened his eyes again, but everything was gone. His hands trembled slightly, and he moved his head as if he expected to see something again.

"What's going on? It everything alright?"

England's voice was suddenly near, or at least nearer than he had expected. Somewhere Russia felt relieved to have someone near, because he had no idea what was going on, but at the same time he didn't want anyone around anymore. He still had his hands raised in midair. The nearing footsteps made him feel more uncomfortable.

"Nothing," He spat, not sure whether he had intended for it to sound that rude.

England didn't say anything for a moment. Maybe he thought Russia was going mad, or perhaps he reasoned it was normal for someone who had turned blind to act weird and be extremely wary. Which one was actually correct? Russia tried to calm down, since this would get him nowhere. He lowered his arms, and sighed.

"Is it hard to deal with suddenly being blind?" England asked, not sounding offensive nor piteous, but sincere.

There was a little silence. Russia doubted whether he had to tell England what he had seen. He also didn't want him to think that he was weak and constantly in need of help.

"Can I ask you something that might sound odd?"

"Err, okay," He sounded fairly calm, which made Russia feel slightly better.

"Is there a fireplace here?"

After a short silence, England spoke up, "Yes. Are you cold? I have central heating though."

"It's not that," He quickly said, "It's just, um, are your walls a kind of creamy yellow? And do you have a wooden floor?"

"Not really no, the walls are light blue and there's a carpet that covers the floor entirely."

Russia nodded, "Nevermind then."

"That's okay, why did you ask?"

"No paintings either? Big windows and curtains? Chandeliers? I don't really know what I was expecting."

There was another silence. Russia started feeling nervous. He feared he was turning into a lunatic, or at least sounding like one.

"I don't understand," England muttered, "That's not how my house looks like. That's how it used to look like. You're describing all kinds of elements that were in here earlier, and I mean a long time ago, around the Victorian era."

Russia started feeling light in his head. He didn't know whether it was his nervousness or something else. He didn't want to say anything anymore. What was he nervous for anyway? Everything seemed so confusing. The blood seemed to slowly be drained out of his head, and the light feeling became stronger.

"You look pale, are you okay?"

England's words went right through him. His body was becoming heavy and slow. The only thoughts that were going through his head were the ones about returning home as soon as possible. He didn't care anymore for the rest of the world. He would crawl into a corner and wait for the blindness to pass. The more he thought about it the worse he felt.

He would have heard the Englishman gasp, and he would have felt his hands grabbing him. If everything hadn't turned black, he would have known. If he wouldn't have lost consciousness, he might have had noticed England's worry and confusion as well.

* * *

His mouth was dry. He started waking up from a restless sleep. It was as if he had become more tired now than he had been before losing consciousness. A shiver ran up his spine. He groaned softly, and raised his hands to his face. His fingers ran over his eyelids, as if he wanted to make sure they were opened. There was nothing he could see anyway. He felt slightly nauseous and generally just as bad as before.

There was a bed, because he could feel the mattress underneath him and the blankets covering him. That was all he knew. Where was he? He grew more uncomfortable and nervous, as if the room was getting too small for him, as if there wasn't enough air to breathe for him. It was so silent. There was nobody. He felt abandoned and alone. It was a terrible feeling, because he couldn't take care of himself in this situation. He wanted to have someone around that would make it less scary to be alone, and yet everyone was a danger now that he couldn't see them anymore. How could he trust anyone or anything?

He tried to calm himself down, but he could feel that it wasn't just him scaring himself. It was as if there was something else inside of him that forced all these thoughts into his head. His hands were shaking, and he noticed that he was breathing rather fast. He leaned his head against the cool wall, and tried to get a grip of himself. He couldn't act all scared and nervous now, because others would abuse that weakness. This thought made him want to calm down even more but it also made him feel even worse.

After ten minutes, he was tired of it. He had managed to suppress his feelings, but he knew that if he stayed there for longer he would go crazy. He rose up from the bed, and tapped the walls until he knew about how big the room was, it was a small one, and then he headed for the door that he had found. The air in what he guessed was the corridor, was colder. He dragged his feet further, while his fingertips remained pressed against the wall.

His hand hit something. The sound of breaking glass or some other material was loud and echoed through the corridor. He could hear the shards crashing on the floor and sliding away to all directions. He cursed silently under his breath. Again, his hands were raised in midair, but he couldn't see anything. He couldn't think of anything to do, and his thoughts started to become chaotic again.

"Russia?!"

Behind him. He straightened up and turned around with a smile, "Da?"

"What are you doing?" He yelled, "Why are you wandering in my hallways and breaking my vases?"

"It's only one vase, right?"

England sighed, "Why aren't you in your room?"

"I'm not tired," He answered.

There was a little silence, and Russia knew that England had noticed he has lied. "Then what do you want to do?"

Russia hadn't really thought about what he actually wanted to do. He had just wished to be elsewhere. "I'm thirsty."

He didn't care whether the Brit believed him, but he could really use a glass of water. England guided him to the kitchen, where he sat down on one of the chairs.

"What hour is it?" He asked.

The sound of glasses being put down and filled with water made him feel like he was at least a little more aware of his surroundings.

"Two in the morning. Here's a glass of water."

He nodded and emptied the glass easily. England sounded tired. The man was also tired, and didn't seem to be angered anymore. They were both silent for a moment. Russia felt better. There was no danger, for now. He felt the need of sleep return to him.

"We should head back to bed. There are still a few more hours to go before breakfast."

Russia agreed, and with a little help of England, he was brought back to his room. He sat down on the bed, pushing England's hand away when he offered to help.

"Goodnight", England said before leaving him alone in his room.

"Спокойной ночи (Spokoinoi Nochi)"

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Translations:

Спокойной ночи (Spokoinoi Nochi) : Goodnight (Russian)

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Thank you for reading another chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! This was not betareaded, and I'm sorry if I have overlooked any errors or typos. I'm not native English. I'm afraid I won't be able to upload the next chapter very soon, because I'm still having exams, and a couple of other stories to write, and from July 9 to July 22 I most likely won't be able to write at all. Sorry for this, but I'll try to do what I can!  
**Liked it?**  
**Review! :)**


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